


Afterwards

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Battle, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Trauma, knights looking after eachother, there's sansa/tyrion if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 02:56:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18730309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: “Don’t leave.” It was barely a whisper, but her words hung in the cold air. “Please.”He lifted his good hand and, uncaring for the blood, wiped away her tears. “Never.”After the Long Night, Jaime and Brienne have catching up to do, and wounds to clean. Set directly after S8E3.





	Afterwards

People huddled together in the rooms and corridors of winterfell. The great hall was full of the wounded or dying, those who were well enough to work scurrying between bedrolls, sewing cuts or cleaning injuries. Samwell shuffled between beds, giving advice where he could, a faraway expression in his eyes like he wasn’t really there at all.

There were bodies piled up in the courtyard, in the corridors, against the walls. There were hundreds - thousands - of dead lying wherever they fell when the Night King was killed. Clearing them and burning them would be a gargantuan task; one that none of the exhausted survivors quite felt they were capable of. It could wait till the morning; with the Night King gone, the fear of the reanimated dead seemed to have passed.

There were men and women, wildlings, Starks and a few Dothraki or Unsullied survivors leaning against walls, huddled in hallways, fitfully sleeping. The rooms of Winterfell were largely untouched: no one could bear to be alone, choosing instead to find other survivors and talk or drink or weep until they were too exhausted to carry on.

Brienne, Jaime and Pod had made their way carefully over the heap of bodies in front of them in silence, not sure where was best to go. They found Jon examining the body of the ice dragon, then Sansa and Tyrion had appeared from the crypts, trembling. 

People seemed to head back to the castle, pulled along by the lights from the torches and the murmur of conversation. The Dragon Queen had appeared, covered in blood, inconsolable. Even she seemed unsure of what to do next.

Brienne barely even noticed that something was wrong with her squire until he swayed, slowly, and collapsed into her. Knees shaking, she somehow managed to grab him before he hit the floor. 

Purpose. Direction. She was a _knight_ now. She had to do something.

“Help me…” Her voice cracked, wavered. She took a deep breath, steadied herself. “Help me get him inside.” 

She and Jaime pulled Pod’s lifeless form into the hall and laid him close to the fire. Tyrion appeared at his side.

“What can I...is he..?”

Brienne shook her head. “Exhausted, I think. Or blood loss. I…” She looked at Tyrion’s scared, helpless expression. It mirrored the expressions of everyone around him. “Undo his armour. Take as much off as you can; it’s too heavy for him. If you find any wounds, keep pressure on them until you find a maester...or someone with a needle.”

She stood up. Jaime watched her, blinking. “Brienne, what are you…”

“My duty.”

Jaime scrambled to his feet and followed her from the hall. She peered around, spotted another injured soldier, and headed towards him. 

“Can you walk?”

He nodded, barely looking at her.

“Good. You!” She grabbed a stunned looking soldier who was hovering, listlessly, near a pile of corpses. “Take him inside. Then get yourself a drink.”

He didn't even think, just did as she said, as if relieved to be given an order.

Brienne turned to Jaime. “You should head in, too. Help your brother, or find a maester…”

He shook his head at her. “I'm staying out here. With you. Tell me what you need me to do.”

She chewed on her lip. She _wanted_ him to go and find a maester, to rest and recover. But she _needed_ his help. 

“Help me search for the living.”

 

***

She went back and forth for an hour, finding the wounded and bringing them to the hall, barking orders as she did. Jaime followed her, caught up in her, and was quickly joined by Tormund and Ser Davos. Soon, a huddle of survivors were following her, helping, and even more had been sent to the Hall to assist the wounded at her command. She'd even found her Lady and given her a job, leaving her gently stitching a gash on Pod's shoulder with Tyrion watching over her shoulder, muttering to herself than him: “I've always been good at sewing.”

And then Brienne had vanished. She’d sent the others to look on the Easterly wall, had tasked Jaime to head back to the hall with a wounded wildling woman. When he came back, she had gone.

He realised, with horror, that it was the first time she’d been out of his sight since the fight began. 

Panic set in. He ran back into the hall, grabbed the first standing man he saw and demanded to know if he’d seen Ser Brienne. He shook his head, wordlessly. Jaime marched on, up and down the hall and then out into the courtyards. He picked his way over bodies, looking for her. He shouted her name, but there was no reply.

There were endless passageways leading towards the courtyard, so he took the nearest and ran down it, jumping over bodies and slamming into the walls. He took a turn, then another, and suddenly he was back outside. He cursed, turned around, and started again.

Winterfell was a maze. He’d only visited the castle a handful of times, usually accompanied by some Northern squire or lord who’d show him around and stop him from going astray. But today, the only Northern men he found were busy or dead and he was lost in the chilly stone halls.

He went up and down flights of stairs, dodging around men and bodies alike. It was quiet - a far cry from the noise and rush of the battle. And then…a noise. He stopped walking, and listened. A low wail. It was probably the wind - there were enough cracks and holes in the walls of Winterfell to create almost harmonious notes when the wind hit them in the right way. 

Regardless, he turned and followed the sound. He headed down a flight of stairs - he could be heading to the crypts or the basements, he had no idea - then paused before another long, narrow corridor. There was no breeze down here, no winds to wail. He had a sudden vision of the corridor ahead of him full of blue-eyed, undead monsters, lurching towards him through the dark.

He took a deep breath, then turned the corner.

It was Brienne. She was sat, back to the wall, her knees pulled up with her head resting on them. She was sobbing - the sound of her cries were reverberating down the stone passageway. 

He edged forwards till he was standing next to her, then knelt down.

“Brienne-” 

She jumped, with a yell, and swung around. Reacting automatically, Jaime countered the attack and grabbed her wrist with his hand. She made a sad, lost sound as she realised who it was.

“Jaime, I…I…”

Her bottom lip was quaking. Now he was close, he could see that her whole body was shaking, streaks on her face where her tears had washed away the blood. He’d never seen her like this - even during the battle, she’d been steadfast and strong. It was wrong. It was _terrifying._

He shuffled down against the wall so he was sitting on the cold stone next to her. He realised he was still holding onto her wrist - slowly, he let go, lowering it down. 

“Don’t leave.” It was barely a whisper, but her words hung in the cold air. “Please.” 

He lifted his good hand and, uncaring for the blood, wiped away her tears. “Never,” he said. 

She closed her eyes and leant into his touch. His fingers brushed her neck, and he could feel her rapid heartbeat beneath her skin.

He leant forwards. He didn’t know why - the movement was natural, unplanned - and rested his forehead against hers. She finally opened her eyes, her dazzling eyes, and stared at him. He was expecting her to chastise him, to tell him to get off, but she merely sighed, shakily, before closing her eyes again.

They sat, leant on eachother, for what could have been minutes, or hours, or days. Time had stopped - time didn’t matter anymore, not in this strange new world. 

Slowly, she stopped crying.

“We should head back and get cleaned up.” He muttered. “I think they’ve opened up some of the other rooms for…”

“For survivors.”

He swallowed heavily. 

Together, they made their way back through the winding maze of Winterfell and towards the main hall. They spotted Tyrion, now moving between beds with Lady Sansa. Brienne hesitated. Jaime spotted the look of uncertainty on her face.

“He’s fine.” She turned to him, and he continued, “I kept a watch on him, when I was bringing in the wounded. It’s just shock, exhaustion, and a well-stitched wound.” She didn’t look convinced. “They’re taking care of him, Brienne. Somebody needs to do the same for you.” 

They headed out of the hall and down a winding passage. Brienne hadn’t spent long in Winterfell, but she knew they were heading towards the kitchens and the mess halls were servants and soldiers ate. 

The room was full of people, but oddly quiet. Two long tables had been placed in the centre, along with benches, where people were sat - muttering to each other, drinking, picking at uneaten scraps of food. On one side of the room a fire had been lit, but no one seemed keen to get too close. 

“Come, Ser, this way.” 

Jaime led her towards an alcove next to the fireplace, a recess in the wall where the stones had been warmed by the fire. He helped her down, then turned. She felt, even though she knew it was foolish, a brief moment of panic.

He must have spotted it in her face. “I’ll be right back.”

He headed off, towards the kitchens, and she sat back against the wall. As if just remembering it was there, she tugged at the strap of her belt and pulled Oathkeeper off, leaning it against the fireplace. She started to fiddle with the straps of her armour, but her hands were still trembling and useless. She tugged at the ties, but seemed only to be making them tighter. She swore under her breath.

“Let me.”

He was back. He was carrying a wooden bowl, a bundle of cloth, and had a wine pouch slung over one shoulder. He knelt down, placing the bowl beside the fire - it was full of clean water. He handed her the wine, which she uncorked with her teeth and drank, gratefully. 

“Although...I’m not sure how much good I’ll be.” He lowered himself down next to her. He held up his own hand, which was also shaking. He sighed. “Fought our way out of an impossible battle against the living dead only to be defeated by our own armour.” 

Brienne found herself smiling. She looked up at him, and he caught her eye with a smirk. 

“At least I can get this off…” He too removed his sword and leant it on the stone next to Brienne’s. The twin hilts glittered in the bouncing firelight. 

“Brienne…”

“Yes, Jaime?”

“I…” and then his face twisted in panic, “Gods, Brienne, you're bleeding!”

Brienne moved a hand up to her hairline and pulled back to see blood staining her fingertips. 

“Ah…”

Jaime grabbed the bowl of water, dipped a strip of cloth into it and wrung it out, dripping water onto the stone floor. He was already advancing upon her before realising what he was doing, and hesitating.

“Can I..?”

She wasn't sure if there was anything she could say that would deter him. She wasn't sure if she _wanted_ to deter him. 

She merely nodded, and Jaime leant forward on his knees and gently pressed the damp cloth to her head. 

“It doesn't look deep,” he murmured, “head wounds always bleed more...but it's difficult to see in his light. Hmm…”

He sat back, placed the cloth down and then, to her shock, dunked his whole hand into the bowl.

“Jaime, what _are_ you…”

But before she could finish her sentence he had lifted his wet hand and pushed it through her hair, brushing it backwards. She gasped, shocked at the sudden touch as his fingers rubbed across her scalp. The whole battle they’d been fighting back to back, clashing into each other, pulling each other out of the way - but this was different. He peered at her, smoothing down her hair.

“There. That's better.” 

She couldn't speak - even if she could, she wouldn't know what to say. She watched as he grabbed the cloth, then reached up and started cleaning the blood from her head in neat little circles.

“You know,” he continued, looking at her with a critical eye, “That's not bad. The hair, I mean. Perhaps when this is all over you can make me your handmaiden.” 

“I haven’t had a handmaiden since I was a girl, Jaime.” 

“What about Pod?”

She snorted and gave him a look of derision. He grinned again and continued to clean. It was calming, for both of them, the dirt and blood gradually disappearing and revealing the pale, freckled skin beneath. Soon, he had moved away from the hairline and the neat little cut hidden on her scalp, towards her forehead and the rest of her face.

“You've got a black eye…”

She blinked. She hadn't even noticed how far he had gone. He frowned, slightly: he hadn't noticed either.

“How bad?”

“For a Lady, or for a Knight?”

She rolled her eyes in lieu of an answer, making him smile. “I've seen worse. Although, I'm not sure I've ever seen so much blood…”

Brienne examined his face. “I think I have.”

“It's impossible to tell how much of this is yours and how much isn't…” he sighed, “I _think_ there's a gash behind your ear. Does it hurt?”

“ _Everything_ hurts, Jaime.” 

“This is impossible.” He threw the cloth down. “We need to get this armour off of you.”

Before, that would have made her blush, but now she just nodded.

“Can you..?”

“I may need a hand, I suspect.”

She ignored the jape, ignored his sparkling eyes, and leant forwards. Together, they began to peel away her armour; her holding it in place and he tugging at the ties with his hand. It was a slow, awkward process, but one she was grateful for: every movement or pull at the armour made her wince as pain ricocheted across her body. 

He removed her pauldrons, and then the armour that ran down her arms. Everywhere was stiff and sore, but removing the heavy armour made her feel lighter, like she could breathe again. Together, they even removed her thick, padded gambeson till she was wearing only her boots, trousers, and her grey woolen undershirt. 

“Now…” 

He reached past the pile of discarded armour to grab the cloth once more, and peered behind her ear. Gently, he started to dab at the skin - she winced in pain as he cleaned the wound. Blood had spilled down her neck and was staining her undershirt, and he moved downwards methodically, removing as much as he could. He pulled at the tie of her shirt, loosening the collar, wiping away the evidence of the battle.

But on her neck there was something else. He wiped away a dark patch of blood and revealed a gnarled, raised scar - still pink and shiny. Brienne shuddered a little as he moved over it and for a horrible moment he thought she was wounded - thought she was _truly_ wounded - and he stopped.

She stared up at his concerned face. “What is it?”

_The bear pit. The wooden sword. The horrible claws, the teeth, the fur. The blood._

“They...never healed properly.” He said, quietly.

She shuffled her shoulder. “No.”

“Does it hurt?” 

“Only if it’s cold. Or...or if I’ve been fighting.”

He carried on wiping away dirt and blood. The long, grizzly scars crossed her neck and disappeared below the collar of her shirt. Here she was, covered in blood and bruises and wounds, but it was the sight of this years-old scar that made his heart beat faster and his blood turn icy. 

She noticed the expression on his face, and gently reached up to take the now-stained scrap of cloth from his hand. He didn’t resist. 

“That was a long time ago, Jaime.”

He stared at her with panicked eyes. “You could have died.” They both knew he wasn’t talking about Harrenhal. 

She sat up so she could better look at him. “Your turn.”

He sat, somewhat dazed, upon the cold stone floor as she began to move around him, undoing straps and pulling away armour. She moved quicker than him, and soon he too was only wearing the light clothing that he wore beneath. They shuffled nearer to the fire, shivering slightly. 

She placed the bowl of water on the floor between them, then held out a hand. Confused, he placed his hand in hers automatically. The feeling of his skin on hers was electric - the small, gentle touch made her lose her breath. His hand was rough and calloused; but she supposed hers was too. She felt his fingers curl around hers, and when she looked up at him he was staring at her with an almost wistful expression, like he could see into her, like he…

She felt her cheeks flushing.

“I meant...the other hand.”

He looked like he had been about to say something but had changed his mind, and he pulled away. She kept her hand out, raised her eyebrows, and, with hesitation, he extended his other arm towards her.

She gripped his arm at the wrist and started to unbuckle the leather straps. She tugged on the hand, and he winced as it slid away, taking the leather cover with it. The skin beneath was raw and red. 

“Jaime…” 

He tried to pull his arm back, but her grip on his wrist was firm. She pulled the scrap of cloth from the water and, without hesitating, began to gently clean the stump where his hand had once been.

“Brienne, you don't need…”

She looked up at him as he trailed off. He looked pained, and she stopped moving, keeping her hand pressed against his skin.

“Does it hurt? I know I'm rough…”

He shook his head, amazed that she could describe herself as _rough._ “No...just...you don't need to. If you don't want to.” He lowered his eyes. “I know it isn't...it's...unpleasant.”

“Jaime. _Look at me_." He obeyed: he would always obey her. She dropped the cloth back into the water, clasped the stump in both hands and looked him in the eyes, “Do you think that matters? Do you think I care about _unpleasant?_ ”

“It's more than that, though, isn't it,” He frowned at the floor, frowned at himself, “It's disgusting. _I’m_ disgusting.”

She sighed. “Jaime, do you know what I see when I look at your arm?”

“An old, broken, usele-”

Brienne cut him off. “I see the man who saved me. The man who risked himself for my...for my _honour_. I see a _good_ man, Jaime.” She swallowed and felt herself blush as she continued, almost unable to stop, “I see the bear pit. I see the best sword I've ever used. I see the...the Harrenhal baths. And trust. I see _you_ , Jaime.”

He stared at her, his eyes huge and shining, his brows furrowed.

“You're not disgusting. You're a _knight_. Knights have scars.”

His eyes darted to her neck. She smiled, gently. “May I?”

He nodded, and she once again began to clean. The water soothing the angry skin. She worked in silence, turning his arm over, wiping away blood and cleaning between the raised, white scars. Finally, she was done.

“There. You ought to keep the hand off, for now. You don't want to risk infection.”

He blinked at her. “Thank you, Brienne.” 

“You did the same for me.”

“Not for that. I...thank you.” 

They both realised she was still holding onto his arm. Jaime felt an automatic sting of terror, that he ought to pull back, but the look in her eyes made him resist. With care, she pulled his sleeve back down and then, finally, let go. 

Brienne let herself move back from him, forced herself to unhand him, and leant with her back against the wall once more. He moved to be next to her, his arm pressed against hers, closer than they strictly needed to be. She grabbed the wine from the ground, took a drink, and passed it to him. He drank deeply.

She wondered when she had last slept. It seemed like a long time ago.

Jaime felt a pressure on his shoulder, and looked down. She was leaning on him, her head resting on his shoulder, her body turned towards him. He watched her breathing for a moment.

“Brienne?”

She murmured something sleepily at him, and he smiled, letting his head drop to rest on hers. They sat like that for a while, Jaime twisting the wine pouch in his hands, looking around at the other soldiers who were milling around the room.

“You know,” he muttered into her hair, “You really are extraordinary.” She did not reply, breathing slowly, apparently fast asleep. “No wonder I find myself so inconveniently in love with you.”

He felt the warmth of her next to him, felt the weight of her head, listened to her rhythmic breathing. He yawned, twisted around so as to face towards her better, and closed his eyes.

 

***

 

Tyrion made his way somewhat unsteadily down the stone staircase towards the kitchens. He was surprised to find Lady Sansa there, sat at one of the long tables a little way away from her men, a cup of wine in front of her and blood still under her fingernails.

“Lady Sansa,” he greeted her, “I did not expect to see you down here.”

“It feels safer down here than up in the hall. I need to...” she sighed, “there are so many wounded.”

“You've done as much as you can for them.”

She took a drink. “But there is always more to do. Will you join me?” She reached across the table to grab an empty goblet.

“Actually, Lady Sansa, I-”

“Just Sansa is fine, Tyrion.”

“Actually, _Sansa,_ I was looking for someone. I don't suppose you've seen my brother, have you?”

She laughed. It was short, sharp, but real. Tyrion had felt like he might never hear laughter again.

“Perhaps _I_ should be asking _you_ if you've seen my Knight.” She said. 

“Oh?”

She turned in her seat and nodded towards the far corner of the room. Tyrion followed her gaze, then found himself laughing too. Jaime was sat in the corner, pressed against the wall with the unmistakable figure of Brienne of Tarth leant against him, a rough looking blanket thrown over them. They both seemed to be deeply asleep.

“I thought they might be more comfortable with the blanket.” Sansa said, a little grin on her face. 

Tyrion nodded. “I think, for now, I'll let him sleep a little longer. Pour me some of that wine.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote and published this before watching E4 with the intention of making it a one-chapter one-shot
> 
> But now I HAVE watched E4 I have a lot of Opinions about Things and so. I might just. Continue. Just for one more chapter.
> 
> Basically what I'm saying is "isn't it hot in here" feels like it isn't *enough* for these two, ya feel?


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